


Descent

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Series: Boundaries Verse [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little prequel to my longer story Boundaries, obviously set in the same verse. The rest of the series is Thomas Barrow/Edward Courtenay; this piece focuses on Edward and the disaster in which he loses his eyesight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Descent

The last thing he remembers is that awful, shuddering jolt of the plane and his head snapping backward, helmet sliding half-off, then slamming back against his skull as the shattered console collapses on his leg. It’s excruciating, the pain in his head and that searing around his eyes – as if someone had dragged shrapnel across them and right into his brain.

He must have blacked out. Now, he supposes he’s coming to because the pain is back. He has never, ever felt anything like it before – yet he can’t even tell if he’s awake or not, not for sure. Everything around him is still dark.

Something sticky is matting his hair and soaking his shirt at the back of his neck. _Blood_ , Ted thinks. He tries to reach up to touch it. His muscles don’t obey him, however; he can hardly raise his shaking hand before he has to let it drop down again.

But even that tiny movement starts a vicious wave of nausea rolling over him. His stomach heaves. He wonders how he’s supposed to be sick like this, lying flat on his back somewhere _(not the cockpit)_ and unable to move. He chokes a little bit, coughs. Worse pain stabs through his head.

“Tilt his face to the side,” a voice says.

“You sure?” another man asks.

“He’s starting to vomit. Here, before he chokes on it…”

Dimly, he can feel a man’s hand turning his face sideways before he throws up. There’s a roaring sound in his ears. He thinks _God, I should be able to clean up after myself_ , but of course he can’t. He tries to roll onto his side. Pain shoots through his leg and head and _oh, God_...  

He hears someone whimpering. It takes a moment for him to realize that that pathetic little sound was his own.

Then he can’t hear anything, not even his rescuers’ concerned voices.

***

The pain in his head is a little better – a dull throbbing, rather than the red-hot agony he remembers – and he’s only queasy, not nauseated now. He’s lying somewhere soft, warm.

He tries to open his eyes. He thinks they are open, but he can’t _see_ , so he blinks, opens his eyes again. No: something’s very wrong.

Panic grips him. His heart starts to pound against his ribs. Within a minute he realizes that he’s cold with anxiety, though the room had seemed warm enough before.

***

He asks about his eyesight every day. He’s so weak he barely hears what they say to him ( _“severe head injuries… bleeding in the brain… a wonder you survived at all…”_ ), but he asks anyway.

At least, he thinks it’s every day. It’s hard to tell time when he can’t see and can barely move, and when he doesn’t even know where he is, exactly. But he does know they tell him his eyesight _may_ return. They’ve done everything they can, supposedly.

Each day he believes them less. He’s almost at a boiling point of frustration when one of the doctors, an older one from the sound of the voice, comes in, and speaks to him very seriously, and tells him that the damage to his optic nerve is so bad it’s unlikely he’ll ever see again.

Ted’s sure his heart stops beating. His whole body goes cold, and his chest is so tight it aches to breathe. He suspected that that was coming, but until he heard the words he’d had _some_ hope… God, to know that his whole world has been reduced to this, to a dark little room and helplessness and barely being able to eat or go to the toilet without a nurse…

“Well,” he manages, “at least you’re not _lying_ to me. I’d rather face it than…”

He chokes up. The doctor says something about starting rehab and meeting with someone to get his discharge and his pension in order. The words make Ted’s stomach twist.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he interrupts. “Please leave.”

He wonders how he can be so composed: still the officer and the gentleman. Inside, he’s seconds away from shouting or swearing or breaking down right in front of the other man. But the doctor agrees. _Thank heavens for small miracles._ It’s a very small miracle, but he hears the doctor stride from the room and shut the door behind him.

He puts his hands to his useless eyes and weeps until he’s too exhausted for tears.

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter of Boundaries is proving slow-going, so I chose to write this little prequel set in that verse. Bear in mind that, as usual, you're getting liberal arts grad medicine and liberal arts grad military and air force knowledge. This piece is also chronologically before Boundaries, the multi-chaptered, "main" installment of the series. Also, as in Boundaries itself, I have Edward Courtenay go by Ted Courtenay because my father's name is Edward and, awkward.


End file.
